


Follow Me into the Dark

by slothy_girl



Series: Sway with Me (Hold Me Close) [1]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Introspection, M/M, Memories and dreams, Other Characters are Mentioned or Appear Briefly, Post-Kingdom Hearts III, Re:Mind Compliant, Reincarnation, Riku spilling his feelings literally everywhere, Sort of..., a little fluff, kingdom hearts - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:34:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22794061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slothy_girl/pseuds/slothy_girl
Summary: It’s been six months.Six months since Kairi washed up suddenly on the play island, gasping and choking around the waves and the lingering darkness and the dry sobs heaving through her soaked frame. Six months since she’d said, “I lost him—Riku—he’s gone—”Riku had shaken his head, not because he didn’t believe her—he did believe her, that what she said, she thought was true, no arguments there—but because he knew—he knew—Sora couldn’t be gone. Not really.Not him.And that’s what he believed.*~<3~*Now part of a series, because I have very little self control, apparently.
Relationships: Riku/Sora (Kingdom Hearts)
Series: Sway with Me (Hold Me Close) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643101
Comments: 8
Kudos: 93





	Follow Me into the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Hello world and all who inhabit it! Can't believe I actually wrote anything for this fandom. Usually I just lurk and enjoy the fic, but I guess it was about time I contributed.
> 
> Not beta read beyond my own attempts. Inspiration listed in the end notes because there be spoilers lol
> 
> Title is from "Sway with Me" by Saweetie and GALXARA from the Birds of Prey movie (which you should definitely go see if you haven't already!!)

-

“I may forget myself, but you I could never forget.” –Emory R. Frie, _Neverland_

-

**|Follow Me into the Dark|**

It’s been six months.

Six months since Kairi washed up suddenly on the play island, gasping and choking around the waves and the lingering darkness and the dry sobs heaving through her soaked frame. He’d known, the moment she’d fallen back into their world—a spark of light, fizzy and bright and crackling like pop rocks against some peripheral sixth sense, some inner ear tingling that came with the territory of being a Master, of wielding the Power of Waking. (Or so he’s been told, though he can’t say he hadn’t noticed the strange looks he’d received when he tried to describe the way it felt, the way it _feels_ —how it’s something he’d felt even before Terra came and bestowed upon him the honor of the Keyblade, though it had been fainter, the fluttering of butterfly wings, delicate and shivering—gaining the Power of Waking had only blown open the dam). And he’d known she was alone.

That Sora hadn’t come back with her.

“Riku,” she’d said, stumbling into his chest even as their friends fluttered around them anxiously, fingers piercing into the skin of his arms, forceful, desperate—her ragged nails digging in and in and in until pain flashed, pin pricks, needle points, blood welling up into the creases of her nail beds. Her grip tightened, impossibly. “I lost him—Riku—he’s gone—”

Around the terrible ache, frightening in its intensity, of doubt and fear and sudden _loneliness_ curdling in his chest, Riku had shaken his head, not because he didn’t believe her—he did believe her, that what she said, she thought was true, no arguments there—but because, just as he’d known she’d returned, that she’d done so alone, he knew— _he knew—_ Sora couldn’t be gone. Not really.

Not him.

And that’s what _he_ believed.

What he believes.

Because he does, he believes—in this feeling, in his instincts, in _him_ —

And that feeling is one he’s taken great pains to trust, ignoring the dwindling looks of hope on their friends’ faces, in three pairs of eyes so much like Sora’s (for all that they’re _different_ —Riku would know Sora’s eyes anywhere). It makes Riku’s teeth ache, his throat tight, to look at them, the concern and pity and grief, the mourning— _they shouldn’t be, not yet, godsdamn it_ —because it’s been six months, and they’re not any closer to finding answers than when they first started and it’s—it’s just a lot, sometimes.

But just because it’s hard to deal with—just because it would be easier, somehow, to give up, to give in—doesn’t mean shit.

He’d given up on Sora once, years ago, full of jealousy and anger and loathing—and Sora showed him exactly what he thought of _that_ —

He would never give up on him.

Not again.

Not while there’s still breath in his lungs and blood flowing in his veins.

Not while he still has a heart that sings half a song.

They’ve got little in the way of clues or leads, not that they had much of that to begin with. All they’ve got are ideas and hopes and _dreams_ —

(What good is a Dream Eater without the Dreamer?)

He can’t say he’s not a little frustrated with Kairi—maybe she’s right, maybe the key to finding Sora is in her heart—it’s her heart Sora saved, not once, but twice, and she’s the last one who saw him. It’s not a bad theory by any means.

But it’s been six months and—nothing.

“A heart is a vast and complex thing,” Master Yen Sid says towards the end of their weekly check-in. It could take years, decades, longer even, to complete a full scan of someone’s heart the way they’re trying to do.

“It’s the best lead we’ve got.” Aqua smiles flatly—still pale and pallid from her recent trip to the Dark World, even with her armor, even with friends there to ease the sting—and everyone agrees—well, almost everyone. In this, at least, Donald and Goofy seem to agree with him if the doubtful looks on their faces are anything to go by. “Just while we exhaust anything else we can think of,” she tacks on, an afterthought. An appeasement. He may have expressed his own frustrations—burning in his chest, words choked out around the lump lodged in his throat (they’re not doing enough, there must be more they can do, more leads they can chase down, some other worlds to check, some other friends whose hearts have been touched by Sora’s that they haven’t asked yet, if only they had another pair of _hands_ )—within hearing range. Or maybe she’s just noticed the way his sparring is splitting into something more violent and hungry and wild for all that every move is still tightly, painstakingly controlled.

(It’s the only time he can let loose. The only time he can really vent. His frustrations, his doubts, his fears, his love…

He just feels _so much_.

But then again, it’s Sora, so he isn’t all that surprised.)

It’s the _only_ lead we’ve got, no one actually says. But he can see the way their faces twist up and crumple more and more—with every world visited, every apologetic look on the someone Sora had befriended over the years, every search with nothing to show for it except more sadness and exhaustion—and knows they’re starting to believe it.

Riku’s not sure of much of anything, really. Just that he doesn’t think this is working.

That an extra head to riddle through for options, that another brain to pick and prod at the meager pieces they have to this puzzle, might go farther, might mean more, than an indefinite sleep with no end in sight.

(It doesn’t help that they’re spread thin as it is, between the search for Sora and keeping darkness from spreading in the worlds springing into existence every day.)

And that Sora must be closer than they think.

This, at least, he knows. Knows in his _bones_ , aching and tense in the very marrow.

“Where to next?” Riku asks, voice tight and stubborn in the heavy silence.

The Keyblade Graveyard is proving to be even more inhospitable than Riku ever could have imagined before, and that’s even accounting for the last time they’d all been here with thirteen Xehanorts hellbent on forcing his ideas on the very fabric of the universe.

What a tool.

As it is, it’s just Riku and King Mickey, and they’re currently stuck in a hole.

A godsdamn hole.

“Fuck.” Riku sighs and brushes his bangs out of his eyes, squinting up and up and _up_ into the deep abyss above. He can’t even see where the hell they’d even fallen from, even with Mickey’s Fira spell lighting up the rock all around them. It’s like the stone had collapsed back in on itself, the earth swallowing them whole in a mess of rubble and debris—it reminds him of his time with Milo Thatch and the search for Atlantis just last week—a cave in with no other way to go but forward. “Well, I don’t think we’re going to get out that way any time soon.”

“Aw, shucks, Riku. I’m just glad we’re not hurt.” Mickey hums contemplatively, eyes ping ponging between the three corroded fissures sloping away from them. “You think we should split up? Try to find the way out?”

Or maybe some answers? If there’s anything Riku’s learned by now, it’s that nothing seems to happen without a hundred different reasons knotted up and tangled around it, even if those reasons are dumb.

“If there even is one.” Riku snorted. “I don’t know. You think it’s safe?”

“For two Masters? I think so.” The King laughs, smile a little strained in the flickering light. “It’s not like this is the Dark World.”

Not that that necessarily matters. Because obviously, bad things can happen anywhere. They are on a world that is literally a graveyard—who knows what might even happen here, all things considered. Riku wouldn’t put it past this place to have malcontented spirits ready to pummel them into the dirt or something. “Okay. Just shout if you need anything, I guess.”

“Good luck, Riku.”

“You too, Mickey.” And with a nod, Riku trudges down the steepest drop to the middle gap, tentatively summoning his own Fira, dark and ominous but a light nonetheless. At the mouth, crumbling stone pushing in on all sides, he glances back up one last time, before shaking his head. Best not to linger. Who knows how long that ceiling will hold anyways?

Who knows how long _any_ of these walls will hold? Gods.

Riku has never been claustrophobic—that’s always been something Sora had dealt with—all clutching hands and hammering heart and his face buried into Riku’s chest or shoulder or back, whatever was closest (it’s something that only got worse after Sora’s close call with Xehanort in the Sleeping Worlds—except the enclosed space had been himself—how fucked up is that), Riku all too happy to offer comfort, even when he’d been in his, according to Sora, “Dick-canoe phase”—but this winding hole is definitely testing his resolve.

Riku squints at the rocks skittering down off to one side with no outward reason to be doing so and rolls his eyes. Some distance ahead, there’s a drip, drip, drip pitter pattering almost metronome steady, except for how it suddenly pauses randomly before starting again in earnest.

Resigned to his fate, whatever that turns out to be, he grumbles to himself and resumes his trek.

It’s maybe a few meters later that he notices a strange breeze, chilled and damp smelling, like death and rot and the turning of the seasons. An exit or maybe an underground reservoir? Could explain the dripping noises. He pauses, pressing a hand against the crumbling wall. The dirt is moist yet hard-packed, and there’s something almost strange about it. It’s only when he’s walked on that he can put his finger on it—it’s man-made. Er, well, sentient being-made? Someone crafted this part of the walling, for all that it’s falling apart.

And like the cavern had been waiting for him to notice, suddenly, sparks erupt from the ceiling.

Riku shouts, stumbling back a few steps and losing just enough concentration that his Dark Fira whisps pitifully into smoke. Braveheart springs into his hand with the clang of metal, but the sparks aren’t coming for him. He blinks up at the ceiling, tense and defensive, at the orbs drifting above him near the stone, glowing and glittering and pulsing through the darkness, bioluminescent like the jellyfish back home on Destiny Islands.

“...the hell?” he murmurs, lowering his guard ever so slightly. But all the shining orbs do is float around aimlessly. No Heartless spring into existence. No Nobodies. No ghosts. Some kind of spell, maybe? After another moment, Riku huffs, feeling all of seven years old again, investigating the monster lurking in the Secret Place with a scared but determined Sora at his back, hands twisted in the fabric of his shirt.

He dismisses Braveheart with a sigh and rubs at where his chest has started to ache, muscle deep, if he’s lucky, but more likely much deeper than that.

With nothing better to do than to keep moving forward, he sets off again, this time a little more on his guard, the glowing lights illuminating his trail better than his Dark Fira ever did. And it’s pretty, he admits, all blues and silvers and sparkles.

They remind him of Sora’s eyes.

Slowly, so very slowly, the ragged edges of the tunnel—for that is what it is now, no question about it—smooth out into something weathered and worn, from age and time or what, Riku’s not sure, but still very much intentionally carved from the stone. The glowing orbs spread out from the ceiling like glow bugs the further along Riku goes until crisscrossing patterns flow in a wide arch, from the floor all the way up and over the ceiling and down to the other side. Now and then, openings begin branching off into the gloomy darkness, but Riku pays them little mind.

An anticipation starts bubbling in his stomach, a curiosity he just can’t squish that’s gotten him into some of the greatest and worst situations he’s ever been in, that weird pop rock noise crackling like static in the back of his head, louder and louder as he follows the lit trail further into—where? He’s not sure, but some part, some small, quiet part of him—a part he dimly recognizes (it’s what whispered he accept Terra’s succession of the Keyblade, that hissed to fight back when Ansem took possession of his body, that murmured soft reassurances he himself could never utter when Sora collapsed against him in desperate happiness—wrong body and all—in the Castle of the World that Never Was, that wailed solemn and hollow between his ears when Kairi washed ashore alone)—a part that _knows_ something, but he can’t for the life of him parse out what it means.

Without even realizing it at first, Riku is running, eyes trained on the glowing lights and the winding path ahead, and even once he _has_ noticed it, he can’t stop, couldn’t even if he wanted to, running faster and faster and _faster_ , the patterns of the lights blurring together into something almost technicolor—more than the blues and silvers, all reds and greens and yellows and oranges—until he abruptly stumbles into an alcove, a dead-end, just barely catching himself on a rock jutting out in front of him—

Only, it’s not a rock.

It’s an _arm_.

Riku skitters back, swallowing down the shout that nearly springs forth as he falls back on his ass like he isn’t a Keyblade Master, graceful and powerful and Gods—he’s just glad he’s alone, honestly. What a fucking disaster.

He blinks rapidly up at the arm, sees how it connects to a torso, how it connects to a body, still and silent and made of stone—he’s a disaster, and all over a statue.

Agh.

He stands up, brushes himself off.

“Gods, I’m an idiot,” he grumbles—how can he reprimand Sora for his determined obliviousness to run into literally everything when _he_ clearly has no leg to stand on either—and looks at the statue he nearly face planted into. It’s a man, older than Riku, closer in age to Cloud and Leon, hair spiked and long and tied into a braided pony-tail. Unlike everything else this far down, the sculpture stands out, in near pristine condition, little to no weathering, all sharp and curving lines like the sculptor had just finished it a week ago. And there’s something…

Heart thundering, his pulse fluttering wildly in his throat, he looks up the strange robes and outstretched hand back to the stone face of a man whose sudden familiarity leaves him instantly breathless for all that he can’t actually place where he knows him from. It’s something in the shape and kindness of the eyes, the smile lines the sculptor had clearly taken the time to articulate, the spiked hair framing the face, the almost mischievous quirk of the mouth, like there’s a secret hiding in the shadows.

He’s beautiful.

Riku swallows thickly, cheeks flushing.

He forces his gaze back down to the hand, soft and gentle, palm held up like the man is asking for a dance, like he’s offering something, like he’s waiting for someone. Riku wonders who that someone was, who it must have been, to deserve a look so serene and tender as the one the man is wearing, for the man to have been sculpted with such a gesture immortalized forever. Hesitantly, he places his own hand into the man’s, feeling a little silly and a lot confused, but there’s that part of him again, encouraging, sighing happily, something warm and weird bleeding into his chest, when his hand settles almost perfectly into the man’s like puzzle pieces—

Riku wakes up.

There are hands, all wide palms and safe and familiar—he knows every callous on these hands, every knitted scar and white burst of skin where even a Curaga wasn’t enough, he could trace the heart lines on these hands blindfolded—cradling his cheeks, thumbs brushing light and tender over his closed eyelids. There’s a scent of spiced cinnamon and home coming from these hands, a smell he could never forget, just as he could never forget the person it’s tied to, and he breathes in deep for the comfort of it. He does not open his eyes for how heavy they are, can feel the strain and tension in his temples speaking to a headache just barely kept at bay. Riku’s exhausted. But he’s happy too.

Because Sora is here. He’s _here_ and Riku _missed him_ —

“Hi,” Riku says, voice deep and raspy with sleep. He tries to memorize the feel of those hands on his face, that cinnamon smell, while he still can. Sora, who has always been so casually affectionate with him, has been for as long as he can remember, all grasping hands and oblivious touches, like Sora doesn’t know where his body ends and Riku’s begins, like he has a claim to Riku’s body that he only ever questioned once during a time when Riku was arrogant and angry and looking for ways to hurt him the way he hurt too. Sora, who is everything that Riku has ever wanted and needed, his friend, his to protect, the person who matters.

Riku will take anything he can get.

“You don’t have to wait up for me every night, you silly man,” Sora reprimands softly. “And in such an uncomfortable place.” There’s the gentle heat of healing magic over Riku’s skin, washing slow and easy like the waves on Destiny Islands from the places where Sora’s hands rest, easy and confident. He can’t help but lean into it, sighing as the tension and aches fade away.

“I’ve slept in worse places.” And it’s true. He’d take the wall he’s leaning against and the cushion he can feel underneath him now over sleeping out in the open in various worlds, laying down wherever he’d stood when exhaustion finally pulled him from the shadows he’d been skulking in, from a time when his face wasn’t his own, for all that he was still himself.

A huff, fond and amused. “Yeah, yeah, but you don’t have to.” A whisper, “There’s a perfectly nice bed in the other room, you know.” The hands start to pull away, slow, dragging down soft against the lines of his jaw, his neck, but before they can leave his skin entirely, fueled by the warmth burning in his chest and some incurable impulse, he captures a hand in one of his and cups their tangled fingers back to his cheek with a contented hum. He doesn’t mean to say it, he’s already done too much, toed a little too far past the line he holds himself by (because while Sora can get away with his careless affection, Riku _can’t_ ), just by holding Sora’s hand in his like this—he’s a romantic but he’s not a fool, and they aren’t exactly together, not really, there were hints and looks and bantering that seemed more and more like flirting, but nothing had ever really been _said_ , and who knows, maybe it’s just all in Riku’s _head_ —but the words tumble out, tender and sincere, wrapped in all the feelings Riku has ever felt for Sora, pulled out like someone else is saying them for him, “I will always wait for you.”

A laugh, warm and bright and entirely unsurprised, pleased, like this is something he’s heard before but is always happy for the reminder of, like this is expected, like this is _his_ and only his. “Sappy.”

And it’s this that throws Riku. Because—no matter how much Riku may wish it, no matter how much he wants it, craves it—this can’t be real. It’s not right. Sora is gone. Sora is missing.

Has he been in a Dream this whole time?

Except, it doesn’t feel like a Dream. Doesn’t feel like it did during his Mark of Mastery exam, or the Dreams that plague him now, Dreams of a cityscape, of Sora and him trapped, separated and wandering, of a man in an Organization coat looking up at the sky, and a man with blue and red eyes.

It has that same, too-real quality of the Dreams, but there’s a blurriness, a static-y overlay cottoning up in his head, a buzzing, not unlike that weird crackle pop sense of his.

He blinks his eyes open. Where he’s expecting blue, all he sees is burnished amber—shining bright and glittering like a star just barely contained in the limited space of his eyes, iris and sclera and all, surrounded by little pinprick freckles glowing softly in the dark—all of it glaring out from a face that’s much older than what he’s used to, for all that the happy, affectionate look he’s being given is one he could never forget.

He jerks back—

And opens his eyes.

“Riku!” Mickey shakes his shoulder again.

“I’m awake,” Riku says, the words tasting strangely like ashes in his mouth. His head hurts, a pounding ache behind his eyes, his temples. Even more worryingly, his chest is burning, fierce and raging as a Firaga, almost angry and inflamed, painful. He tentatively sits up, prodding gently over the back of his head, like maybe there will be a bump or a wet spot, tacky with iron and blood, some way to explain just why exactly he feels like he went another round against a Demon Tide.

But there isn’t.

“Are you okay, pal?”

“…Yeah.” And he _thinks_ he is.

No blood. No bumps or bruises, save for an agitated burn on one of his palms. A simple Cure and it’s gone, red skin and all. The headache eases away like water trickling out of a pitcher, but the chest pain remains, though it’s fainter and almost sad. He blinks dumbly around at his surroundings, not entirely sure how he even ended up here, taking in the little pockets of darkness untouched by Mickey’s Fira in the alcove he’s found himself in, the ragged and crumbling walls, an odd lump of stone jutting out from nearby.

Something like lead drops into his stomach, but he doesn’t know why. “Hm.”

They get out of there.

Mickey had found an exit while Riku was laid out in the dark—the missing piece of his memory, how he went from wandering around a tunnel to the alcove, passed out and vulnerable and suspiciously unhurt (for the most part), is more than a little worrying. Mickey won’t stop shooting him anxious glances that even his most reassuring smile, tired and strained though it is, can’t seem to stop—but it’s not worth enough to investigate at this point. No use waiting around for answers to fall into their laps. It’s not like that has ever worked for them in the past.

They can always come back later, if they need to.

(There’s a part of Riku that hopes they won’t have to. Too much weird stuff. Very little in the way of explanations.

And it’s the last place Riku saw Sora, whole and alive and determined and _smiling_ …)

(There’s a smaller part that hopes they do return, and Riku’s not quite sure about why that is.

He’s almost scared of what the answer would be.)

On the Gummi ship, speeding through space, Riku watches through the view screen as the Keyblade Graveyard fades back into the stars of other worlds and the darkness of the Lanes Between.

“Okay?” Mickey asks cautiously, glancing back at him from the pilot’s seat.

“Yeah,” Riku says, nodding. He rubs absently at his chest, just over his beating heart, where the pain has mellowed out into something dull and cold and seeping. “Yeah,” he says again, softly, like he’s trying to convince himself just as much as he’s trying to convince Mickey, blinking against the fizzing in his peripheral sense, that inner ear tingling, and the empty feeling like there was something he had forgotten.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by kh theories revolving around how Sora and Riku might be reincarnated versions of Kingdom Hearts and the Keyblade, respectively. Also inspired by @braveheartriku's art of Kings Sora and Riku (found here: twitter.com/braveheartriku/status/1101928951822266368).
> 
> And that's a wrap! Thank you for reading!


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